Into the Crucible
by Sweet Lu
Summary: A flashback inspired by the "Internal Affairs" episode. An exploration of what might have happened with Deeks, Tiffany and Boyle in that motel room. Originally posted on wikiDeeks.


**Into the Crucible**

...

Boyle sounded beyond pissed as he yelled at him over the phone, and Deeks fumed in frustration, feeling nothing but revulsion as he listened to the man's slurred words. The bastard sounded drunk, and he couldn't get a word in as his partner shouted out his demand without taking a breath.

"Get your fuckin' ass over here Deeks, and I mean now," muttering out the name of the motel before the phone went silent.

"Sonofabitch."

He threw the paperback he'd been reading across the room, pissed when it knocked a photo of Surfrider Beach off the mantle. The shattered glass now littering his living room seemed a fitting symbol of his totally fucked up evening. Boyle was the last person he wanted to see, but he was still his partner and when he was this enraged it wasn't a good idea to get on his bad side, not that the asshole had a good one.

He mumbled a string of disparaging nicknames for the man under his breath, and shoved his gun behind his back before slipping an old navy blue hoodie over his black t-shirt and slamming out the door. Rain clouds still hung low over the city, giving it an eerie, oppressive vibe and adding to his growing uneasiness. He wanted no part of whatever this was about, having realized early on the man was into the kind of deals that could get you killed, and at the very least investigated by Internal Affairs. The bastard had already pulled a gun on him once, and he couldn't help but grimace as he recalled the nasty taste of the cold gun barrel that Boyle had shoved in his mouth. He had only been that scared and that angry a few times before in his life, so he wanted no repeat of those feelings tonight.

"Dammit Bates! Why'd you partner me with this sick fucker?" He shouted in the dark confines of his car.

He'd never understood how the Lieutenant thought the two of them would match up. Boyle was volatile and arrogant, a violent bastard who got his kicks beating up hookers, the younger the better. Days into their partnership the man had invited him to a get together with his old partner Steadman at a run down ranch house in the Valley. It was before he knew better, so he went. He recognized a few of the detectives that were there, but the rough looking characters hanging out didn't look like cops and he steered clear of them. There was lots of booze and he wasn't terribly surprised to see drugs being passed around, but it was the age of the girls that had stunned him. They were obviously hookers, but most of them were teenagers, and he'd become decidedly uncomfortable when Boyle had shoved a half-naked blond into his arms and told him to have some fun. Instead, he'd taken the girl out the back and told her to get the hell out of there. She'd just giggled and tried to unbutton his shirt, making him so angry he screamed in her face, but she'd simply shrugged and walked back into the house, leaving him alone in the dark and badly pissed off. He left without a backward glance and his partnership with Boyle was off to a rocky start.

The man operated out of control most of the time, and the letter of the law meant nothing to him, just the results. He had seen him beat suspects without cause and his attempts to stop him only got him shoved against a wall, and reminded who was in charge. When he'd objected to the man's threat to pour hot coffee on a minor drug dealer, his partner had laughed and called him a wuss, then dumped the coffee down the suspect's pants. Boyle's actions had shocked him and the high screams of the scalded man disturbed him so badly he'd lost his lunch in the bushes outside. That was when he'd gone to Internal Affairs the first time.

He quickly grew to hate his partner, but he also came to fear him. When Boyle had discovered he'd gone to IA, he'd driven him inside an empty warehouse down by the rail yards on a warm, sunny afternoon and told him to get out of the car. He'd thought it was a case and had never seen it coming when the man rounded on him, forced him against the side of the car and shoved a cocked pistol between his teeth. His threats had been dark and full of violence and memories of his father had exploded in his mind, all of it leaving him shaken and enraged. He'd always prided himself on being loyal, but since then he thought of nothing but how to get away from the unstable bastard he was partnered with.

Now he'd been ordered to meet him and he knew whatever he was walking into wouldn't be good. He knew Boyle was dirty, and he suspected he and his ex-partner still ran deals together, but he had no proof. For all he knew, this was a set-up. He'd refused to be drawn into their shady deals and rip-offs, and he knew they didn't trust him, so being called to one of LA's seedy little motels set off a clamor of warning bells.

By the time he arrived it was close to midnight and it had started raining again, making this part of West Hollywood look even more depressing than usual. He checked for Boyle's car, but didn't see it among the few in the almost deserted parking lot. Business didn't appear to be too good, but the night was young he supposed. With a racing heart he parked his car in the alley in back and reluctantly got out. Flipping his hood over his head, he moved slowly back through the rain, and climbed the stairs, hesitating halfway up. He thought about simply walking away and making up some excuse for not coming, but a muffled plea from behind the door at the top of the stairs stopped him.

"Shit."

He knew that voice and he bolted up the stairs, trying desperately to cool his sudden anger. Boyle's curses stopped him only briefly when he reached the door, and he shoved it open to find his half naked CI crying and cowering in the corner, her arms covering her face and her knees pulled up to her chest.

"Shut the damn door," Boyle snapped. "Nobody needs to know our business."

"What the hell is this?" Deeks asked as calmly as he could and took a few more steps into the room.

The bed was in disarray and one of the pillows was speckled with drops of blood. A broken lamp cast an odd light over the scene of obvious violence and he felt a chill go through him. It all looked so familiar and he swallowed the foul taste that had crawled up the back of his throat. He glanced quickly at Boyle, who looked winded, his knuckles bruised and cut as he took a swig from the fifth of whiskey he always carried.

"Your fuckin' little whore set me up," he breathed out ominously, his eyes dark and suspicious. "You know anything about that?"

He ignored the loaded question and kneeled in front of Tiffany, whispering her name as he tried to calm her. Her dress was torn from her shoulder and hiked up to her waist, revealing deep bruises on her thighs. He could see the imprint of a man's fingers around both arms, and when he pulled her hands away so he could talk to her he almost gagged at the damage done to her face. Her nose was broken and blood covered lower lip, her blackened eyes streaming with tears that choked her voice as she begged him to help her.

"Why the hell did you do this, man?" He asked as he stood and turned to confront his partner.

"She's a fuckin' snitch," he roared back, grabbing the front of his jacket. "You in on that, partner? You sell me out to IA with your little hooker friend here?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You know Quinn from IA?"

"We were in the Academy together..."

The punch came before he could prepare himself and it slammed him back against the wall leaving the taste of blood in his mouth. Boyle was on him instantly, their faces inches apart, and the smell of whiskey was nauseating.

"You rat me out to your old friend, you hippy fuck?" He growled.

"We weren't friends, asshole," he shouted and shoved back. "And I didn't go to IA."

"I got a tip Quinn's after my stash," Boyle said as Deeks pushed past him and wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I don't want to know about any of it," he said shakily. "You and Steadman can get together and merrily sift through your hidden treasure like the Pirates of the Caribbean for all I care. Just let me get Tiffany out of here."

He felt the cold muzzle of a gun press against the base of his skull and he froze, rage building deep in his gut. Boyle ripped his gun from behind his back and he heard it hit the wall behind him before the man's hand wrapped around his throat.

"I can't let you do that," he said softly. "She tried to get me arrested and I'm finding it real hard to let her get away with that."

"I won't say anything," Tiffany whimpered. "I promise..."

"Shut the fuck up," he told her calmly.

"What are you thinkin', man?" Deeks asked, suddenly afraid for the young girl. "She's only a kid. Let her go."

"Don't think I will."

"Come on, man," Deeks pleaded. "She won't tell anybody anything and neither will I. You don't have to do this."

"Steadman always said you were a bleeding heart," Boyle replied dismissively. "Or maybe you're just bangin' her and don't want to lose your own personal whore. That it Deeks? You in love with a hooker?"

"You really are a dick," he breathed out.

Boyle clocked him with the gun barrel just above the ear and he stumbled into the small TV, and gripped the edge of the dresser to stay on his feet. He heard the man's harsh laugh, but his ears were ringing badly, his vision cloaked in a gray haze and he struggled to right himself. He saw Boyle turn toward Tiffany and raise the gun and the scene moved in slow motion before him. Tiffany stretched her hands out in front of her as if it would stop the bullets, her face a mask of anguish and her eyes wide with fear. His partner was going to kill her and he couldn't let that happen. Enraged at the senselessness of it, he pushed off from the dresser, and grabbed the gun with both hands, driving his shoulder into Boyle's chest, landing on top of him as they tumbled onto the bed. They struggled silently until Deeks rose up enough to ram his knee up between his partner's legs, making him jerk violently forward, and causing the gun to go off. The bullet struck Boyle in the head, sending blood splattering across the wall. Scrambling off the bed, the roar of the discharge still echoed in his ears, drowning out all thought as he stared down at the gun in his hand.

The first sound that registered was Tiffany's voice softly calling his name. He knew he was in shock, and he drew in a strangled breath as the realization of what he'd done hit him full force.

"Get out of here," he whispered, his voice shaky and raw.

He dropped the gun on the bed and stared at his dead partner as blood slowly seeped into the pillow beneath his head. Swallowing down the bile in his throat, he ran his hand through his hair and tried to think what to do.

"Help me, Marty," Tiffany pleaded.

He looked over as she reached out for him to help her up. His mind still blank, he pulled her to her feet and held her as she leaned against him, staring at Boyle as she clutched desperately at his shirt. She was trembling badly and he quickly shed his hoodie and wrapped it around her shoulders, realizing he couldn't let her go out alone in the shape she was in.

"You saved my life," she choked out. "Shit, Marty...you're in trouble. I'm so sorry. Quinn made me do it..."

"That doesn't matter now," he said in resignation.

A rush of adrenaline shot through him as his mind swirled with different scenarios. If he wanted to protect her and to protect himself, he had to cover this up. He had to get them both free of this or they would both end up in jail, and she didn't deserve that. If he told the truth, he would be prosecuted for manslaughter and she was his only witness. If he told the truth, she would be implicated. She would go to jail and so would he and both their lives would be forever altered because of his bastard of a partner. Why had Boyle called him instead of Steadman? Maybe it was a set-up all along. Maybe the bastard had planned on killing her and got him down here to take the fall for it. He wouldn't put it past him.

He didn't want any of this. He had worked too hard to let this dirty sonofabitch ruin his life and Tiffany's in the process. She was only seventeen, and they had both struggled to overcome horrible childhoods. He had encouraged her to get out of the life she was in, and she was trying, but if he told the truth it would end whatever hope she might have to lead a normal life. If he told the truth he was finished being a cop, the only thing he believed he was truly meant to do.

He closed his eyes and made up his mind. He would cover this up. He would get them both out of here and they would go on living their lives. He struggled to rationalize it, but he had killed his partner, and even though he'd had no choice and did it to save someone else, he felt the first inkling of the burden he would forever carry. Boyle's death. His guilt. His crime. His lies.

It would always haunt him, but he'd been a survivor since childhood, so he slowly cleaned the gun and methodically bagged any evidence that might tie him or Tiffany to the scene. He washed his hands free of gunshot residue and then picked up his weapon from the floor and tucked it behind his back. He took one last look at Boyle and then turned and ushered Tiffany out the door, wiping the handle clean and pausing to listen and look for witnesses. It was now almost two in the morning and the place was silent. The rain was heavy as they made their way down the stairs and walked back to the alley. He helped Tiffany get in the car, then braced himself against the door and threw up. Turning his face to the sky, he let the rain drench him, hoping the downpour might wash away the dark remnants of tonight's sin. He knew it wouldn't, but with time he might perfect the lie.

...

...


End file.
